


Anything You Care to Bind

by Gileonnen



Series: Three Knights Game [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aymeric's Inability to Resist a Challenge, Confessions of Love (or Nearly So), Estinien's Inability to Resist Provoking Him, Exuberant Oral Sex, Flaying as Metaphor for Intimacy, Literal and Metaphorical Bonds, M/M, PWP with feelings, Shibari, Symbolic Scars, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27361222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: When Estinien agrees to let himself be tied in intricate bondage, he doesn't realize that it will get him thinking about less corporeal bonds.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: Three Knights Game [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998406
Comments: 9
Kudos: 65





	Anything You Care to Bind

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from '[Knots & Splices](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/41732/knots-splices).'

When Haurchefant first starts winding that soft white rope around the back of Estinien's neck, Estinien makes a snap tactical assessment--the tensile strength of the rope. Any joints and pressure points where he'd be weak if the knots went tight. How much leverage he'd have, if he needed it, to turn that rope into a weapon.

But Haurchefant's touch is sure and reverent, and he hums gently to himself as he weaves the rope around Estinien's body. _Lift your arms, if you would be so good,_ he says, and _You must tell me at once if it feels too tight,_ and _Might I trouble you to hold the rope here for me?_

In word and deed, Haurchefant asks that Estinien have a hand in his own binding, and that more than anything else lets Estinien relax in his bonds.

There is an unfamiliar kind of pleasure in this care, such as he supposes the high-born must find in having their hair dressed or their suits tailored to measure. Every fiber of Haurchefant's being seems to focus on the pattern of knots, the warp and weft of the rope, contemplating how they might best frame Estinien's body. His brow furrows with concentration. His breath come shallow and slow. Estinien holds himself still, waiting, letting Haurchefant guide him from pose to pose as though in a long, unhurried dance.

Estinien has fucked him in a hundred ways, each filthier than the last. Somehow, this feels more intimate.

At last, Haurchefant lets out a long breath as he passes the loose end of the rope through the final loop, drawing the intricate lattice of knots snug against Estinien's chest. "There," he says, still close enough that his breath stirs the fine hairs at Estinien's jaw. His eyes are dark, less with want than with _focus_ , and somehow that keen attention rouses Estinien more than desire could. "It's done. Come see yourself."

Estinien takes Haurchefant's offered hand and raises himself from the hard-backed chair where he'd passed the last bell. His back creaks at the sudden movement, and he stretches until it feels as though he's cracked every vertebra. "Not much of a restraint," he remarks, admiring how easily his arms and shoulders flex beneath the knots.

Haurchefant, too, wears his admiration openly; his gaze lingers on the curve of Estinien's muscles, the bow of his ribs. When he answers, though, there's only irrepressible good humor in his voice. "If you'd wanted restraints, you ought to have told me so a bell ago."

"Next time I'll specify," answers Estinien, barely suppressing a smile.

"Are you finished?" asks Aymeric from the far side of the chamber, where sunlight pours across his working desk. The sun catches in every red-purple light of his dark, dark hair, casting half his face in shadow and half in searing white. He smiles the way he'd smile at any guest come for wine and a round of politicking--and then Estinien has the satisfaction of watching that expression break into wonder.

Aymeric rises from his chair as though without conscious thought. His hands lead him, tracing Estinien's exposed skin between knots of soft, white rope; he fits his palm to the curve of Estinien's arse and then sweeps down to where the rope loops tight around his thighs. Despite himself, Estinien can't keep his breath from hitching at the heat--the possessiveness--in that touch. "You are ... remarkable," says Aymeric, as reverent as a priest at Halone's feet. "Had I known what a marvel Haurchefant would make of you, I would have watched every moment of your transformation."

"I'm the same sullen dragoon you've been bedding for years," says Estinien wryly, but he leans in to steal a languid kiss. "And you're the same quill-pushing bureaucrat."

"You underestimate me," says Aymeric, low. There is a promise in his voice that Estinien can almost feel against his lips, and he longs for Aymeric to put teeth into it.

"Prove me wrong," answers Estinien, his cheek turned to press against Aymeric's, mouth brushing the soft skin of his ear. When his lips close on Aymeric's earring, he feels the answering shudder as though it were his own.

A part of Estinien yearns for a fight. He takes no pleasure in enduring pain for pain's sake, but the sharp urgency of a struggle heats his blood like nothing else. For a moment, as he fits his palm over Aymeric's shoulder and Aymeric's hand splays out across the small of his back, Estinien can feel them both testing each other's balance. His pulse quickens.

"For the Fury's sake, let him see himself before you spoil my work," Haurchefant breaks in, laughing. "The two of you can wrestle later, if you've set your hearts upon it."

The tension of the moment dissipates, burning off like mist. Estinien quirks a smile at Aymeric, who dips his head in acknowledgment. "Apologies," says Aymeric. "I fear mine admiration briefly overwhelmed my decorum."

"I shall take that as a compliment," says Haurchefant. For all his politeness, his eyes are merry, and Estinien marks well how his cock strains at his trousers.

It would be a fine thing, to sink onto Haurchefant like this--Haurchefant gripping the knots at Estinien's chest to pull him closer, urging him down until the ropes around his thighs sear into Haurchefant's loins with every thrust. Would probably chafe like the seven hells afterward, but with Haurchefant eager and straining beneath him, it would be a fine, fine thing.

Haurchefant touches his waist, and Estinien lets himself be turned toward Aymeric's looking-glass.

He is neither modest nor vain. He knows the lean, carven beauty of his own body; he takes satisfaction in his scar-crossed skin and his long, powerful limbs. Every part of him has been honed into a weapon, and its use pleases him.

In the glass, though, he sees Haurchefant's care woven over him in a hundred intricate knots, and for the first time, he sees himself as something others might cherish. He hasn't the words for what he is, with that white rope garlanding him--nothing gentle or lovely. But different, in some way that makes his heart pound and his skin heat.

He turns to Haurchefant, who meets his gaze with a gladness that Estinien scarce can countenance. For the first time, Estinien lets himself feel that joy not as something essential to Haurchefant, but as something that Estinien rouses in him. "Fine work," he says at last, and lights his hand along Haurchefant's jaw. Haurchefant leans into the touch, his cheek warm and wind-rough. His lips find Estinien's palm, then his wrist, so softly that Estinien feels little more than the gust of his breath.

"I would gladly sit a dozen hours weaving roses to gird your hips," Haurchefant murmurs against Estinien's hand, and it's so tender and sentimental that Estinien can only seize him by the back of the neck and crush him close in a kiss.

Haurchefant opens to him at once, letting Estinien swallow his cry of surprise. His lips are soft, his tongue hot where it brushes Estinien's; he melts beautifully into Estinien's arms at the first scrape of teeth. They trade searching bites, bright flickers of pressure at the very edge of pain, until Estinien splits Haurchefant's lip between his teeth and the taste of blood fills his mouth.

Estinien sweeps his tongue over the line of the cut, and he relishes the caught sound that Haurchefant makes. He wraps his fingers in Haurchefant's hair, chasing the kiss deeper, rocking his hips up into the bow of Haurchefant's as the two of them trade breath.

He realizes that his free hand has fallen to the scar beneath Haurchefant's shirt, which blazes across his chest like a many-pointed star.

Estinien has pulled many friends from death's talons, but none of them has he so nearly lost as Haurchefant.

"Do not falter, my dearest," says Haurchefant, tipping down his head until their brows touch. "The wound has healed. My shield arm is hale and strong. You need not grieve what did not come to pass."

"It's not that I grieve," Estinien begins, but he doesn't know how to finish. It feels absurd to stand there with his prick out and say, _I hadn't realized how much it would have meant to lose you._

"Undress for me," he says instead, pressing a kiss to Haurchefant's brow like a benediction. "The both of you. If you'd like to sate your eyes on me, the least you can do is repay me in kind."

"As you command," Haurchefant replies, with a grin that lights his eyes. He peels himself out of his shirt in a moment, eager and artless, and undoes the laces on his trousers to skin them down around his hips. Beneath his clothes, his skin is flushed with pleasure, his thick cock hanging heavy between his legs.

There is nothing to stop him from tasting it, so Estinien sinks to his knees and takes the darkened head of it in his mouth.

Haurchefant jerks beneath him as though lightning-struck, crying out as Estinien drags his tongue along the underside. His broad hands fall to tangle in Estinien's hair, sure although the rest of him is trembling, and Estinien needs no further urging. He heaves himself up on his knees and takes Haurchefant so deep that his jaw aches at the girth of him.

Haurchefant tastes of clean sweat and skin; the rough hair between his legs smells of soap and musk. When Estinien eases back to suck at the head of his cock, licking the rich salt taste of precome from his slit, Haurchefant repays him with choked, breathless cries that only stoke the rising heat in Estinien's loins.

When a third hand curls at the back of his neck, Estinien reluctantly lets himself be pulled away. Aymeric is standing over him, arm around Haurchefant's waist, gazing down at Estinien with some vast, unspeakable feeling in his blue, blue eyes. "I love to watch you with him," Aymeric murmurs, and strokes back Estinien's hair from his face. "My most cherished knights."

It's foolish to call that touch _reverent_ , but Estinien knows no other word that will serve. He cants his head into Aymeric's palm as though he is a hound and Aymeric his master.

"Will you have me, ser?" asks Estinien, and he marvels at the fucked-out roughness in his own voice. "If not, I was rather enjoying myself."

Estinien expects Aymeric to guide his mouth to Aymeric's cock--craves it, even; his lips are parted to take it in. But instead, Aymeric lowers himself to his knees and presses a swift kiss to Estinien's aching lips, then turns to swallow Haurchefant down.

And oh, it _is_ sweet to watch Haurchefant get sucked--the way Aymeric's cheeks go hollow around that heavy cock; the way the sunlight catches on slick skin, wet lips, tears gathering diamond-bright at the corners of Aymeric's eyes. How Aymeric's gaze never falters, not even when Haurchefant's eyes fall closed in pleasure. 

_My most cherished knights._

Estinien grazes his cheek over Aymeric's, and Aymeric leans back to kiss him slack-mouthed and messy. His pulse pounds against Estinien's skin. He breathes in--greedy, heaving breaths--as though he means to draw air and aether from Estinien's lips.

"I fear I've left you unanswered," says Aymeric at last, when his lips are stained red from kissing and his eyes have gone dark and glassy. He slides two fingertips beneath the knot at Estinien's breastbone, and with studied languor, he kisses the notch at the base of Estinien's neck. "My answer is yes. Yes, ser, I will have you."

"Then have me," Estinien says, and tips back his head to bare his throat.

Aymeric could never resist a challenge. He lets slip a low cry of hunger and latches his teeth in Estinien's neck, biting as though he means to wreath Estinien's throat in bruises. Every bite seems to catch some raw nerve, sending hot white pangs of sensation lancing through Estinien's body--and still Aymeric rolls Estinien's skin between his teeth with a savoring ferocity that goes to his head like strong wine.

If he broke the skin, it would not be enough. If he laid bare every sinew, every pulsing artery, it would not be enough. What Estinien craves runs deeper than blood and muscle, and no tooth or blade can carve it from his flesh.

"Enough," says Estinien. His voice is a mere rasp of sound. He feels every heartbeat at the root of his cock, as palpable as a touch. "I'm close. And I'd rather spend with you inside me."

Again, Aymeric brushes Estinien's hair back from his face--this time lingering, his thumb tracing the hard angle of Estinien's cheekbone. His gaze is steady, wondering and fond. Whatever he sees in Estinien's eyes, he does not turn away from it.

They raise Estinien between them, Haurchefant lending his shield arm and Aymeric guiding him to stand. Together, they lay him out upon the bed. The sun has warmed the counterpane, and Estinien soaks up the heat of it as though he has never known summer.

Haurchefant curls at his side, where the sunlight gilds his fine silver hair and limns his shoulder with light. He cradles Estinien's cheek in his hand and leans in to brush their lips together, coaxing the kiss deeper with a slow sweep of his tongue--as though this is their first kiss; as though they don't already know every ilm of each other's bodies by taste and touch and sight. He trails soft kisses down Estinien's throat, over his collar bone, whispering praise wherever his lips touch skin. When he takes Estinien's nipple between his lips and lavishes it with his tongue, it's all Estinien can do not to roll him over and rut against him like a beast.

The mattress sinks beneath Aymeric's weight. His hands are on Estinien a moment later, urging his legs apart. Estinien feels the brush of silken hair against his thighs and cants his hips up to meet Aymeric's mouth. Aymeric laughs, and he's still laughing when he takes Estinien all the way to his throat.

The suddenness of it is like a blow--Estinien arches beneath him; he strains up into the wet heat of Aymeric's mouth, feeling the laughter rolling through him in shuddering waves. Aymeric sucks him down deep, again and again, until Estinien scarcely feels the slick fingertip curling inside him.

It sinks no further than the first knuckle, and Aymeric groans around him. Estinien is tight--he knows that he's tight, but he can't force himself loose even for Aymeric's insistent fingers. "Harder," he snarls, half in desperation. "I will not break."

But still Aymeric eases him open with slow, patient strokes, circling and spreading until every touch is a white blaze of ecstasy. Estinien loses track of how many fingers are in him, or how deep. Perhaps only two. Perhaps only one, but deep enough to dig at the root of him. "Take me now, sers," he says, quiet but feeling. "I need you."

With a last, long lick, Aymeric rises to his knees. His pretty mouth is red at the corners, and his eyes are dark and shining. He pushes back Estinien's thighs almost to his chest, then leans in across the straining bow of them to kiss Estinien's lips.

At the height of the kiss, Estinien feels Aymeric slide into him, hard and unyielding and glorious as a blade. The keen, sweet pain of it floods Estinien like snowmelt, but he clasps his thighs around Aymeric's waist and lets the pain flow over and through him until only sweetness remains.

When he comes, he feels a peace steal over him that has nothing to do with release.

They take him in turns until the shadows grow long--Haurchefant splayed beneath Estinien, urging Estinien to ride him harder; Aymeric forcing Estinien to his knees and fucking him into the pillows. The both of them holding him, bracketing him on either side as they trade kisses and touches and cries. By the time the evening sky has faded to purple and the lamplight rises from the streets, even Estinien can muster no further strength to fuck.

He sprawls upon the rumpled bedclothes, feeling every knot bound close against his skin. There is something comforting in the pressure and weight of it, as though the rope is a suit of armor. _Or an embrace,_ he thinks, before he can stay himself.

_Or an embrace._

He shifts and fits himself against Aymeric's back, draping an arm over his waist. As though by chance, his fingertips brush the scar on Aymeric's abdomen.

Such a little thing, this scar. No more than an ilm from end to end--but deep enough to take a man's life.

Aymeric's hand closes on Estinien's. He kisses its rough knuckles, then turns to gather Estinien in his arms. "As Haurchefant said: you need not grieve what did not come to pass."

"It's not that I grieve," says Estinien again. His mouth is dry. If he does not speak now, he may never find it in himself to speak again. "It's only ... I had never thought to be bound to anyone the way I'm bound to you."

On Estinien's other side, Haurchefant curls close and presses a kiss to his shoulder (and he must never forget what scars still linger there). "You need only be bound if you wish to be," says Haurchefant, whisper-soft, infinitely kind.

Estinien closes his eyes. "I do."

And with that said at last, he lets himself enjoy being held.


End file.
